


Family

by Padraigin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Multi, POV Harry Potter, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padraigin/pseuds/Padraigin
Summary: Leave me alone, I say, it hurts. You are nobody, nothing to me, I say; watching as his face and shoulders turn to stone.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 7
Kudos: 16





	Family

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a native speaker, therefore sorry for any mistakes and stray Americanisms. If you point them out in the comments, I'll be really grateful.
> 
> The odd formatting of speech is intentional.

He came, straight as a rod and just as thin, in some idiotic black suit like he was going to the funeral. Mum was looking at me, pleading; was looking at him, clearly in love. How I managed not to throw up that very minute right on our freshly cleaned carpet, I’d never know. I told her just that, and got a sniff and trembling lips in response. Good grief! As if I was the one in the wrong, there. As if I was to love him, too.

Even his name was completely dumb. Se-ve-rus. Mum told me: call him by his name, son, if you’re not going to call him father yet.

I called him “Mr. Snape” to his face afterwards; dubbing him “son-of-a-bitch” firmly in my head.

It was a few weeks after he had showed up on our doorstep when I learned he taught philosophy in the university. So I began to address him as “Professor, si-ir” at times; the quiet of his fury was deafening, my smile was blinding. I felt good. The only downside of that little play was my Mum’s disappointment. You see, she cried quite often after those encounters, and cried she shouldn’t have. A weak heart, she had. 

She had already shed too much tears because of Dad’s death, and she was shedding them again because of that son-of-a-bitch, and I almost despised her for it. She took a habit of coming to my room in the evenings, knocking on my door oh so softly, waiting for me to open, which I did rarely. She sat gingerly on my bed, keeping silent for what felt like hours. I could hardly stand those late night visits; Mum was always just looking at me, her expression all guilty and weary, and I knew, of course, that it wasn’t really her fault. That she couldn’t grieve Dad forever. That she was young, my Mum, only a few crow’s feet around her eyes. And I knew that she should’ve never, ever had to be alone. I knew it all but kept silent too; turned my back to her, closed my eyes and pressed my face into the pillow. The disgusting sight of her new wedding ring was already imprinted on the back of my eyelids anyway.

Sometimes she stroke my hair, and I wanted, desired, burned to shout: him, is it like this you touch him, tender and sweet? to him, are you this affectionate, too? so go to him then, go to your son-of-a-bitch professor!

Mum, I said, Mum. Then I usually lost my train of thought; there was a bitter taste in my mouth, and there was no reason to continue. 

He didn’t like me either, of course. It was mutual, what we had; glares full of seething rage over the dinner table, when Mum wasn’t looking, her back to us. Pass the sugar, I said to him, the sugar, pass it, Professor. He regarded me with his unreadable eyes, and they were so angry, so black, so cold. He all but threw that sugar bowl at me, and Mum just laughed and shook her head. She seemed to think this was some kind of a game between us.

To me, she always was timeless, no, everlasting even. My Mum, I mean. Sure, I knew about death; how could I not, when I was stuffed with some clever words and ideas about existential absurdity to the brim. But I never gave it a deeper thought; death was a stranger to me when it came knocking.

Dad called Mum a “little flame” back then. I remember it quite well; I was a little tyke swinging in my chair, and she was chiding me lightly, and a wayward wisp of wind was playing with her hair, so it seemed it was on fire. Dad was hugging Mum from behind, touching his lips to her cheek, and he said: my little flame, that flame of mine.

She faded away within a couple of months.

I didn’t know she was pregnant. I just knew she had become very thin very fast, that she had felt sick in the mornings, that her stomach had grown despite all of this; it was huge and almost ugly in its size. I mean, it must have been pretty obvious, but I was afraid and disgusted to believe it; so I didn’t, didn’t, didn’t believe.

She and the professor went out all the time, must be the doctors, and after each of such visits Mum seemed to be paler and more exhausted, and Snape just became angrier. Or maybe I couldn’t read his bony, big-nosed face and all I could see was fury yet again; his eyebrows, pitchblack and scowling, sent a clear message. It was much later when I realised it was what despair looked like; only when the whole house was soaked in it, and I wore the same scowl on my own face. 

They began to fight. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Though hell no, I meant that, because I wanted to know! I wanted to understand why he shouted that much! That’s why I spied on them through the keyhole; it was really uncomfortable to do so wearing glasses, but I was able to see it well, the way his Adam apple jumped frantically and the vein on his temple pulsed something terrible. And did he shout, that professor, he shouted all right, but I couldn’t decipher any words, just the tone of his voice. And Mum, she sat there and hugged her stomach, that huge ugly thing that was killing her. And shook her head, while Snape yelled, and yelled, and yelled; and my head hurt.

One day I came home after college, and there was nobody, neither Mum nor Snape. When Snape returned, he was alone. He went to the kitchen and stayed there for the longest time, up until the very morning; and I couldn’t sleep and waited, huddled in the corner in the hall. He didn’t even notice me at first as he finally emerged; just stood there, his back to me, and turned only when I jumped to the feet at his sight. He smelled of whiskey and loss, and I wanted, I needed him to shout again. He was silent.

Something tickled in the back of my throat then, so I didn’t even call him si-ir.

I forbade him from telling me what had happened to her. Or, more like, I didn’t listen. Grabbed my sneakers and ran, wandering aimlessly down the waterfront, freezing thoroughly in that London wind of March. Of course, I fell ill then, and he bought me a ton of meds for some damn reason, ordering to recuperate.

I didn’t; to spite him as well as myself. I coughed, and coughed, and coughed. You see, when my wheezing made my ears ring, the ringing of that grave silence in the house around me stopped.

Funerals, those I was not going to attend. I told him: what am I supposed to do there, in a stupid suit and shit, huh, Professor? I mean, I thought that was what I said, when in reality it might have been a pathetic mumble, choked on dry spasms. He looked at me, his gaze odd and heavy, then turned away. And dropped: all right, do not come.

Perfect, I said, I won’t.

So here I am, tucked in some idiotic black suit because I’m at the funeral after all, standing among flowers and gravestones, and the ground under my feet trembles and crumbles. And I want to ask him, ask the professor, if I am truly sane still, but he will probably say I am not, and I don’t want to hear it, really.

A sharp elbow nudges me none too gently in the ribs. Snape doesn’t even look at me, just the corner of his mouth twists when he hisses: go, go ahead, boy. And I go; and only some seconds later the understanding of what I have to do comes. Bile rises in my throat. I touch my mouth to the forehead so cold, I lay the flowers on the emptiness where the huge ugly stomach had been, I step away. I don’t, don’t, don’t look at her face.

But it haunts me still, each following night.

Everyone in college pities me now.

I want to quit.

Snape is the only one to twist that damn corner of his mouth and sneer, to shake his head. Unfortunately, I can do nothing, as he is my guardian now. And he says that I am weak and a whiner and that I should stop feeling sorry for myself. And I imagine how wonderful it would be to punch him in this impassive face, though all I’m really able to do is to grit the teeth and lower my head. Go, he always says to me, get on with the studies, boy.

He doesn’t call me by my name.

Somehow it gives me great pleasure to repeat “son-of-a-bitch, son-of-a-bitch, son-of-a-bitch” in my head after each of his “boy”.

He says, all of a sudden: why do you skip classes? He says: they called me. He says: you might be expelled. I don’t want to talk to him; maybe I want to be expelled, for him to fuck off already. He grabs my shoulders and holds tightly, no escape. And looks me in the eye, and purses his lips, and demands: answer me. There are lines around his mouth, the grey on his temples. Dark shadows under his eyes, as if he doesn’t sleep for days.

Leave me alone, I say, it hurts. You are nobody, nothing to me, I say; watching his face and shoulders turn to stone.

He releases me, meaning that I can fuck off myself, it’s not that he cares.

Son-of-a-bitch, I tell my pillow; but for some reason I feel nasty.

I still attend college, though I honestly don’t know why. Maybe I just avoid being home all alone. Ron makes a habit of staring me intently in the eye before giving a usual pat on the shoulder; his face is so sad and compassionate that it seems he thinks I’m seconds from crying. It makes me want to throw up, so when the pressure becomes unbearable, I move to sit with Malfoy. Not that we have ever been friends with Malfoy; it’s just that he doesn’t give a damn about what happened and I’m still “Potty” to him. It’s easier like this. 

Perhaps, Ron will stop talking to me soon enough.

I don’t care.

I dream, dream, dream of her, and I don’t know how to escape these dreams; in every last one of them she has that huge ugly bump, the bump that killed her, and she is so haggard and weakened; I wake up with my lips bitten bloody.

This is your fault, I scream to Snape’s face, it’s all on you, si-ir. It’s you, you, you! I scream until raw, I shut my eyes but even then I still see Mum. That was your child, I say, your child, you hear me, Snape?! So what if it died, oh, so what, because she died too!

He looks at me impassively, as he often does. His eyes are impossibly black, I didn’t know this colour is so impenetrable. His pursed lips are thinner than ever, his jawline is hard. Snape, I say, why.. 

I don’t expect, no, not really; I don’t expect a slap.

It shakes me, puts me in shock. Snape, I whisper, barely moving my lips. Snape..

He silently leaves me alone; his back thin and stiff, shoulders proudly set. The quiet weighs me down. My cheek burns.

I feel like a total shit.

Snape, Snape! Snape, I repeat, catching him by the sleeve. He gently frees himself from my grip.

And doesn’t speak to me neither the next day, nor for the next week.

Quit sitting on your hands, Potty, Malfoy says to me. So we work on some practical, or write some test, or try to pass some exam; everywhere I catch these sympathizing glances and get my marks higher than usual. Malfoy, being my partner, is quite glad; I’m, on the other hand, not so much. Because the new thing is, now it’s not only my Mum I see when I close my eyes.

I also see these black, pitchblack eyes, expressing a mix of all the disappointment and dull pain in the world.

We have frozen meals for dinner, eating in complete silence. Our small table, which had not enough space for the three of us, seems enormous now. If I wanted to reach out for Snape’s hand, who sits just inches away from me, I wouldn’t be able, I guess.

May, being the May-of-silence, the May-of-judgement, the May-of-regret, this May passes me by. I learn something, forget something, struggle through the exams; all teachers mend into one big creature with moist eyes, into one big hand squeezing my wrist, into one pair of big lips that move and say: I’m so sorry, Harry, Harry, just hold on.

My own name becomes a slur for me; much more offending than a “son-of-a-bitch”.

Suddenly, I understand the meaning of those Snape’s words. About feeling sorry for myself. No, I mean, I do actually feel that, I can’t do it any other way. I fall asleep with my face deep in the pillow, forcing apologies and accusations out, and it’s almost like Mum’s touching my hair, patting my head for a moment. Like she’s going to smile, a bit guilty and a little sadly, and then I’m going to say..

Snape, I say, Snape, forgive me. I push myself to say this, ignoring the sourness waiting on my tongue; please. Please, I was wrong.

He watches me without saying anything, the professor, si-ir, son-of-a-bitch; without a smile. I’ve never seen him smile, maybe his smile is just nasty.

Snape, I almost plead, inching towards him. His gaze is hellfire. Finally, instead of answering he places a hand on my head. It isn’t a caress, he just holds it there, barely touching at all; and he stares and stares at me, like he’s about to say: absolvo te, boy, absolvo te.

And I want it so much it terrifies me, I want him to move his hand, even if a little, to card his fingers through my hair.

I scatter to my room like a scared animal, and my shoulder blades burn under his scrutiny. I know that he watches.

We still do not talk much. I take my exams, he grades the ones of his students; sometimes Snape comes home very late, exhausted and angry, and I want to ask: so, is nobody able to explain the theory of three stages, really? or, don’t these dunderheads know the difference between Plato and Epicurus? or, maybe.. 

I cooked omelette, I say, want some? 

Snape nods slowly. So we eat omelette, our elbows bump; and I do not call him si-ir anymore, and he does not call me boy. 

On Sunday I clean my room, and it takes the whole day. To sort out things, deeming them necessary or not, crumple old papers.. I spend eternity over the thick photo albums. I never liked them, never; I always got so irritated when Mum stealthily took pictures of me, when I then had to take a thousand different, yet all same pictures of her next to some pretty tree. Now I sit there, petting these thin, cheap and oh so dear photos, and there’s a lump in my throat I can’t swallow.

That’s me in the one of them, a toddler with plump cheeks. Mum is bending down to pick me up, she is smoothing my hair, there’s a smile on her face, dimples showing. I suddenly realise why my father.. no, why both of them, Dad and Snape, loved her. It escaped me before. 

And that’s my Dad; the same round glasses that I have, the same unruly hair. His eyes are not green but very warm anyway. What else should matter?

I stroke the glossy surface and my fingers tingle.

What, Snape asks, are you doing here? He stands in the doorway, his head tilted to the side in a birdlike manner; he is gaunt and tall in his customary black sweater and just as black trousers. Not finding any words, I hold up a picture for him to see. He hesitates, grips the door handle tighter, looks at me almost uncertainly. It dawns on me and starts me; he is waiting for a permission to enter. He’s never been to my room before.

If you want to, I tell him slowly, you can help me gather these.

And Snape steps into the room.

Maybe, if he ever put his hands on an album with my parents’ photos, with the pictures of my Dad before, I would’ve hate him even more. Now I am silent, silent, silent; turning the pages and smiling. My lip trembles, and I hope he isn’t looking at me.

He asks: why?

And I understand him instantly, of course. But I can’t explain it properly. My cheeks are on fire; I cling to the album. I whisper: because. Because the past belongs to the past. Because I don’t want this now.. I can’t..

He doesn’t force me to continue; just squeezes my fingers, and if the said hellfire does exist, then there it is, confined in this thin hand of his.

Later, Snape speaks after a few moments, you’ll have to return them to their rightful place. To let them wait for you there. That’s all you have left, Snape says, memories and pictures.

I caress the red gold of Mum’s hair once again and close my eyes. And nod.

He hugs me around the shoulders.

You know, I whisper yet one more time, you know, I called you “son-of-a-bitch”.

He almost smiles. For a moment it seems to me that he’s going to touch my cheekbone, but he withdraws his hand and closes the album with a loud thump. And says: it’s time to sleep. Then adds uncomfortably, as if for the first time ever: let’s have some tea?

I burn my tongue and lips. Snape drinks his tea carefully, taking small measured sips, his Adam apple moves up and down. I can’t take my eyes off him even as I try; I feel ashamed and suffocated, I feel bad, bad, bad.. but strangely alive.

This night I sleep well for what it seems to be the first time since it all started. Mum comes to me, but she is alive and warm, she strokes my face and tells me: you are a good boy, Harry, my good boy. I wake up without pain or despair.

I start working in the summer. Underage kids are not really welcome anywhere, but I manage to get a job in a small nice cafe. Snape doesn’t comment on this, but I think he is happy with me; there was, after all, that moment the corners of his mouth lifted slightly when I told him the news. Just for a second, blink and you miss it.

So, from morning till night I carry these trays, spending my breaks with Schopenhauer and Nietzsche, and sometimes Snape picks me up on his way home.

Seems like I’m even awaiting him. Though don’t tell him, please; I really don’t know it myself, why I’m so excited to see him coming in.

We walk home together and keep quiet, each thinking of something own. I have this habit of kicking small stones along the road; Snape just watches me out of the corner of his eye, his expression a bit mocking, but kind. I didn’t know he had it in him.

He almost never touches me, similar to how he almost never touched Mum, as if he isn’t sure how to do it properly. Or maybe he isn’t a very tactile person. I don’t dare to ask; if he knew I wanted him to pet my hair, or my face, or my shoulder..

If only I knew why I wanted, why I needed this so much!

Snape, I say, Snape. I do not understand this at all, what Searle’s going about, some Chinese room and something on artificial intelligence..

He is stunned, I can tell, he even looks up from his book. And suddenly, to my shock, he nearly laughs. And speaks softly: well, I’m going to simplify that, but the essence of Searle’s idea is that..

Each day of July I cross off religiously, soon I’ll be ticking off hours. I’m intrigued and a bit nervous; it’s a little more and I will be of age. What will Snape say? Will he say anything? Maybe he’ll loosen up some and will allow me a hug? Just one, I don’t ask for more; just one for me to tuck my nose into his neck and stay like this for a few seconds..

Maybe there is something wrong with me after all, maybe I shouldn’t do it. But if this is so filthy, then why..

No, I don’t want to think about this. And I don’t. There’s a girl waiting for her salad, and an old gentleman who came for a cup of tea with a piece of cake. I have to work, there’s still a couple of hours before the end of my shift; and then maybe, just maybe, a slender figure will appear in the doors, the bell will jingle, and Snape will silently take his seat at the secluded table in the corner. And I will approach him with a smile, and will inform him that I’m about to finish for the day; and I will feel the need to tuck that stray lock of his hair back behind the ear, and I will run away burning with shame and a painful desire to touch.

To my greatest surprise, the morning of my birthday comes unexpectedly anyway. Ron’s call wakes me up; he yells excitedly right in my ear, forgetting as usual that the dynamics are sensitive enough. Something about rogue adult life and bars, I laugh and feel so light and good, it’s unbelievable. I promise him accompanying him to any bar he wants any time he wants; but not today, mate, today I’m spending with my family. 

I pause at that, speaking these words is surreal. My family..

There’s a long silence on Ron’s end. And then he says: blimey, Harry, that’s cool! I’m so glad, he blathers further, that you managed to get on with him finally, even if he is the biggest..

I stop him right there and bid my goodbye hastily.

Snape is nowhere to be seen already. I knew he would’ve left early, not waiting up for me, but I still feel mild disappointment or something; the feeling is not welcome. I shake my head and tell myself to get it together. I’m not needed in the cafe today, I was practically ordered to celebrate and have fun; but all I want to do is to sit on the coach with my legs up, listening to Snape’s inspired lecture about radical empiricism, or, well, you can catch the drift.

He comes back when I’m already tired of waiting. I run to greet him in the hall anyway, freeze the second before crashing into something or someone, stare up with all my might and blurt out: Snape, I’m eighteen now!

Snape pulls off his boots and throws his hair back from his face. He almost smiles. Squeezes my shoulder. I know, he says, I know, and I have a present for you.

And puts something in my palm.

I spend another eternity gaping at the locket which opens when pressed. On the left side there is a miniature picture. A photo, of my parents and me. You need to squint to see the smaller details, but I know every and each of them by heart. That’s my favourite picture.

I have nothing to say; I am dangerously close to tears.

The second side is yours to fill, Snape tells me quietly.

Whilst I’m staring at him, silent but with my mouth hanging open, and I think I can’t breathe.

Moving past me, he touches my cheek; lightly and fleetingly, but I will cherish this brief moment like the greediest sultan ever cherishes his gold.

We spend the evening in the sitting room, talking about nonsense, and I doze off on the coach. In my slumber I feel Snape brushing hair off my forehead; but it must be wishful thinking, I guess.

I wake up full of energy and expectations, and the locket on my chest seems to warm my very soul.

There’s a trunk in the hall, large and awkward, black, of course. It was Snape’s luggage when he first arrived. Why would he bother with it now?

Snape appears at the top of the stairs. He carries yet another bag.

My throat dries and close up.

Snape, I wheeze, Snape.. Where are you going? But he looks right through me instead of looking me in the eye, and answers: you are eighteen. Eighteen, he says, and I am not your guardian any longer.

So it means he leaves me.

Why, I demand, though my lips are not cooperating. Why are you leaving? Why, Snape, don’t you..

He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him; blood roars deafeningly in my ears, my head spins, the ground shakes again, ready to bring me down for good, and if I take even a step, it might succeed.

I don’t fall. Or maybe I do, it depends on the perspective. My nose crashes into his shoulder, I try to grab his hands, distantly I hear the sound of the bag being dropped to the floor. And I beg hoarsely: why, why, why, Snape, please don’t go, I’m pleading, whatever you want, anything you need..

He holds me firmly by my shoulders, but his voice is confused and he sounds a little lost: hush, no need to, don’t cry, please don’t. I want to say I am not, I’m too old already to cry, but my cheeks are wet, so I press my face further into his neck, and he clumsily but carefully pats my back. If he goes, if he goes too now, I will die for sure.

And I tell him all of this, and I can’t shut up, dry sobs do nothing to deter me. Somehow he doesn’t recoil nor pushes me away, he doesn’t even shout about how disgusting I am, though I have no doubts that he understood, understood everything. Still he holds me close, close, closer to his chest and murmurs on repeat: Harry, Harry, Harry..

Stay, I ask again, stay, don’t leave, is it that bad here? Please, Severus.. Please, you are my family now.

He flinches. His hand, which is bound to feel like this damn hellfire by now, touches the small of my back. I look up at him, at his face, trying to find even a hint of answering desire in his features. I find none; but I’m obsessed enough already, have been for a while, so I graze his jaw blindly with my chapped, dry lips, not daring to reach further..

Silly, he says, my silly boy. He cradles and rocks me like a baby, kisses my temple.

And then he stays.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
